


Burning From The Inside Out

by WriteThroughTheNight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Clint, Sickfic, Stubborn Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteThroughTheNight/pseuds/WriteThroughTheNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is absolutely not sick.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>Clint Barton is a stubborn idiot, but he still makes the shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning From The Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bioluminescent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminescent/gifts).



> Hello! This is just a short hurt/comfort piece, written for my awesome friend when she was not-so-awesomely sick. As usual I have no beta, but bioluminescent reads my fics over for me. Anyway, enjoy!

Clint is absolutely not sick.

Or so he tells himself up in his perch, shivering in the heat, unbearably cold yet terribly warm. There's a cough building in his chest, curled painfully in his lungs, but Clint swallows it down. Phil's on the other end of the comm, and his boyfriend is worried enough as is, what with his unusual radio silence. 

Clint blinks once, twice, and tries to keep his eye on the target. Everything's a bit blurry, spotted occasionally with black, and hallucinations. Clint stopped being alarmed about those around the third hour mark. If he didn't think he was still fully capable of doing his job, he would've said something. He's made a shot of greater difficulty bleeding out and half-dead in the middle of a hurricane. Clint certainly isn't going to let a little cold stop him.

"Still with us, Hawkeye?" Coulson asks dryly. Underneath the sarcasm runs a thin vein of concern. Clint smiles to himself, forcing his hands steady.

"Yes, sir." He says, voice rough gravel. Clint can see Phil's expression in his mind's eye, that little crinkle between his eyes when he thinks Clint's hiding something. It's only the bow slipping out of his fingers that shocks Clint awake from where he'd been slouching. At some point, his eyes had drifted shut, and opening them this time takes far too much effort. Clint shifts, restless, and hopes desperately that somebody makes a move soon.

For once, there's someone out there listening, because Clint spots light in the window. The curtain twitches once, and then the target slips out into the street, casing the area but not looking up. They never look up.

Clint reports the change to Coulson.

"Take the shot, Hawkeye." His handler says. Clint doesn't breathe a sigh of relief because he can't afford to cough, and lines up his arrow.

It flies true.

Immediately afterwards, Clint covers the microphone on his shirt collar, and lets himself cough. It hurts, like fire, like burning, and for one terrifying second, he thinks that there is blood in his mouth. Phil is in front of him, demanding something, and Clint blinks through the mirage to focus on the voice in his ear.

"-Barton. Barton. Report, is the threat neutralized?"

Clint takes a long breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. When he's certain he won't cough, he replies.

"Affirmative. Mission objective completed."

Phil takes a second to respond, and Clint imagines, through the migraine pounding at his temples and the fire in his lungs, that Phil is biting words back just like Clint's biting back a cough.

"Alright." Phil confirms, finally. "Back to the safe house, debriefing in two."

Clint mumbles something in acknowledgement before flicking his earpiece off.

It takes everything he has to make it off the rooftop. The stairs he slides down, for the simple fact that he might not be able to make it walking. Despite the spottiness of Clint's current sight, and the ever present threat of collapse, he manages to slip into a crowd. From there, making it back to safety is as simple as staying on his feet, which isn't simple at all. He draws too much attention when he has to divert to an alley to hack his lungs out, but there's nothing to be done for it.

By the time Clint bursts through the backdoor, he's trembling uncontrollably. Though most of him wants to crumple once the door locks behind him, a small part encourages him to shower and try to cool off. 

What should be a reasonably warm shower feels like ice drops against his skin, frozen pellets scraping him out from the inside. Dimly, Clint realizes that this is bad, and that his fever must be somewhere in the alarming range, but the rest of him is too busy whimpering. 

It clears his mind enough that he remembers Phil, and that they still need to debrief. With this in mind, Clint manages to steer his aching body to the couch rather than the bed. He only plans to sit and wait for Phil, brave his way through a report, but as soon as Clint hits the cushions, he's out.

*

The next thing Clint is aware of is a cool hand on his forehead, and swearing.

"Fucking idiot." Clint hears from somewhere above him. "You're absolutely burning up." 

Clint agrees with the voice, because while he was cold before, now he's hot, twenty days in the desert hot, but he can't stop shaking.

The wonderfully cool hand departs, and Clint whimpers. He wants it to come back, and it does, this time with what feels like a wet cloth. Phil- because who else would it be, his boyfriend is the absolute best- presses it to the back of his neck. Overall, Clint can barely feel it, but it's nice nonetheless. He arches back into the touch, grimacing as his body protests.

In response, the hand carding through his hair freezes. 

"Clint?" Phil asks cautiously.

He hates when his boyfriend gets that note in his voice. So Clint forces his eyelids to work, blinking away the haze to meet worried blue.

"Hey." He tries to say. It comes out more like a breath, and the attempt stirs something painful in Clint's chest. Before he can control it, he's coughing, lungs screaming at him to stop, that it hurts. It goes on and on, and for a moment Clint worries that it won't ever stop.

By the time he can suck in a breath, Phil has him sitting up, hand rubbing circles along his back.

"That's it." Coulson says. "Breathe through it."

Clint groans.

"Sorry." 

Phil huffs into his ear, affectionate but irritated. 

"I'm only accepting that apology if it's for being a dumbass and not mentioning that you'd come down with something." Coulson says. He muffles the harshness of his words by stroking a soothing line up Clint's spine. It's without any shame that Clint melts into a veritable puddle, leaning completely into Phil.

"I made the shot." He whispers into Phil's tie. 

"Doesn't matter. It was irresponsible, someone else could've switched out with you. Agent Drew was on standby."

"I made the shot." Clint says, a bit firmer, a bit mulish.

"I know." Phil says, even as Clint can feel him roll his eyes. "Never doubted you for a second."

Clint purposefully ignores the flare of warmth that has nothing to do with his fever.

"Debrief?" Clint asks after awhile.

Phil's laugh is perfect, even when it's at his expense.

"In your dreams, Barton. Time to get you to bed."

Clint smiles into Phil's chest, and lets himself be manhandled.


End file.
